


One Night In New York

by tielan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharon was dragged here. Against her will. (Sort of.) Unfortunately, the man she's trying to chat up is being polite. Luckily, someone else is happy to be friendly - at least for one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night In New York

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so here I am trying to finish my WIPs and my Big Bangs, and along toddles Sharon who wants to have, of all things, a romance with Sam. In a Band AU. Loosely based off Nalini Singh's "Rock Romance" series. As in, _really_ loosely.
> 
> Also for [my Trope Bingo card](http://tielan.dreamwidth.org/745653.html) Round Four: _au: band_.

“It’s one night,” Maria says, rummaging through Sharon’s wardrobe in spite of Sharon’s best efforts at deterring her.

“One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble.”

Maria emerges, brandishing a slinky black thing that hasn’t seen either daylight or nightlife in at least four years. “But we are not men. And this is New York, not Bangkok. This should do it.”

“Depends what ‘it’ is,” Sharon says sourly before rolling her eyes and flopping back on the bed. “I don’t see why you need a date to this party.”

“I don’t,” Maria says, hanging up the dress on the door, and heading for Sharon’s underwear drawer. “But this is part of my deal with your inimitable aunt to get you out a little in exchange for the favour she did me with Ms. Martinelli.”

“I don’t want—”

“No, you don’t – and with good reason. Brock was a prick, and he’s lucky I don’t have access to him, a flamethrower, and no consequences.” Maria starts pulling out Sharon’s underwear and inspecting it piece by piece, like they’re legal documents and she’s looking for tricky clauses in the small print. “However, you’ve barely left the apartment in a month, you’re eating takeaway every night, and every time I call, you’re listless.”

“Self-care—”

“—is all very well. But this has gone beyond self-care and is turning into self-pity.” Maria tosses a pair of lacy panties and matching bra at Sharon. “Does that set have a garter belt?”

Sharon sighs. The thing about Maria is that once she gets on the warpath, it’s best just to do as she says. There’s a reason why her friend is one of the most sought-after PR agents in the New York music industry: when she gets hold of something, she doesn’t let go until she’s conquered it.

And, if Sharon’s honest with herself, then she’s been wanting to get out for a while, but hasn’t had either the opportunity or the company. But she resents being dusted off, dragged out, and displayed like some kind of toy. “Honestly, Maria, don’t you come with an off-switch?”

“Yes. But not anywhere you can reach.” Maria hauls out a garter belt and finds a pair of stockings still in their plastic. “Put those on, and the dress. I’m going to get your jewellery.”

And off she strides to the dressing room, in a slickly professional red dress and towering heels to rummage through Sharon’s jewellery box.

Ugh. Friends. Sharon stares at the ceiling above her bed – glares at it actually. “Will Steve be there?” Perhaps it’s a little spiteful to ask that question, considering how difficult relationships are for Maria after her bastard ex named ‘wanting to wear the pants in the relationship once in a while’ as the reason he cheated. But she figures that she owes it to her friend for running roughshod over her this evening.

There’s a pause. Then, “Yes,” comes the reply, a little defiantly. “And if you want him, you can have him.”

Maria doesn’t mean it – not really. But the thought gets Sharon off the bed and stripping. Not that she’d actually steal a guy out from under Maria’s nose, assuming Steve Rogers, gorgeous blond lead singer and guitarist of hit rock band _American Boys_ , consented to be ‘stolen’ like a piece of delicious man-candy, but she’s feeling just annoyed enough to give Maria at least a hard moment or two. And Rogers _is_ very nice – built, good-looking, and, from all accounts, a perfect gentleman.

Drag her out and ‘get her out a little’? Sure. Fine. Whatever.

If sh’s going be dragged out for a private party with the crew and members of _American Boys_ , then Sharon’s going to put it _all_ out there.

\--

As it turns out, putting it all out there is not the way to catch Steve Rogers’ eye.

Oh, he’s courteous and polite and friendly, but Sharon gets the feeling he’d have been about as nice to any woman who tried to chat him up – it simply isn’t _personal_. Which is just a _little_ demoralising after Brock left her ego in a bruised pile at her door. So when he gently excuses himself to go and have a word with Bucky Barnes, who’s cutting through the women of the party with his trademark ‘bad boy’ swagger and smile, Sharon heads to the kitchen to hunt up a decent glass of red. If she can’t get an attractive man to flirt with her, then she might as well get ragingly drunk and make Maria deal with getting her home.

Revenge may be petty, but at this point, Sharon’s rather annoyed she let herself be dragged out at all.

She’s hunting through the kitchen drawers for a wine bottle opener and wondering how this can be a party without a corkscrew when someone comes in over by the drawer.

“You looking for anything in particular?”

“A corkscrew, so I don’t have to open that Sangiovese with my teeth,” she begins, looking up with a wry smile that freezes as she realises who’s talking to her.

Out of the four members of _American Boys_ , Sam Wilson is the one that gets overlooked the most often.

Steve Rogers is the front-man, the fine-looking good guy that a woman would love to take home so he can be _very_ good to her. Bucky Barnes is the wild guy – tattooed and charming and willing to sleep with anything that has a pulse and can say ‘yes’ – preferably at high volume, over and over again. And Pietro Maximoff is the one with the quick tongue – in the interviews and in the bedroom, so the rumours go.

But Sam Wilson is the dark horse – the quiet one that people don’t notice until they’ve checked out the other three.

As he saunters across the room towards her, Sharon can’t understand why. His jeans and t-shirt are nicely fitted, showing off a lovely lean body, above which a sensuous mouth smiles between the neat goatee he affects. And she can’t look away from him as he reaches past her to the knife-magnet that’s on the wall, and plucks off a— Oh, for God’s sake, it was _right there in front of her_ —

“Thanks.” Sharon hopes she doesn’t sound like the idiot she feels as she takes the proffered corkscrew and begins working on the bottle of Sangiovese.

“No problem.” He smiles at her with a little lift of his chin. “Sharon, right? You’re Maria’s friend. Dragged out?”

“Does it show?”

“Only a little. She mentioned that she hauled you out by main force.”

The corkscrew is decidedly not co-operating, and Sharon is uncomfortably aware of the long, lean body standing in her personal space. That is, she’s uncomfortably aware that her pulse is racing, her nape is hot, and her skin is feeling prickly-sensitive. Sam’s words only add to her discomfort. She could strangle Maria for painting her as a charity case!

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she mutters, then gives up and thrusts the bottle and the half-stuck corkscrew at him. “Can you open this, please?”

He doesn’t step back at her show of temper, doesn’t smile like he finds her annoyance amusing, just straightens up the corkscrew before pulling out the cork. “Got a couple of glasses?”

Sharon eases past him to get the glass she left on the bench, and realises the plural a moment later. “I, uh...”

He’s at her side as she turns, filling up her glass. “I’ll get one outside. You look like you really want this.”

“It’s just been—I don’t mind being dragged out to socialise. I used to be more outgoing, it’s just—” She sighs and resolves not to talk about Brock. “Bad break-up, you know?”

“Been there, got the t-shirt.” Sam assures her. “But we’ll get me a glass and go out on the balcony, and you can bitch at me about him while we finish this bottle, and think about using me to get over him.”

Sharon nearly chokes on her wine. “What?”

He smiles, a knowing little smirk at the corners of his mouth. “Exactly what you heard me say.”

She takes another hasty gulp before noting. “You move fast.”

“As the ad said, ‘Life is short; play hard.’”

“And if I don’t want to move that fast?”

“Then the part where you bitch at me about him still applies.” He tucks a hand under her elbow and gently steers her out into the crowded living room of the party as a couple of other party-goers hurry in, giggling about something they put in the freezer earlier. “I can go slow, be flexible.”

Sam doesn’t lean on the noun, but Sharon hears the innuendo nevertheless. A shiver slides down her skin, as though the lightly calloused fingertips now tucked into the crook of her elbow stroked down her bare spine. And her mouth waters, just a little. So it’s been a while, even before Brock told her she was useless and he wasn’t going to put up with her any longer, and she’s at the time of her cycle when she’s a little horny. So the offer is not only balm to her ego, but convenient to her libido.

Plus, she can’t say she’s not curious.

Sharon leans a little, so her waist is up against his forearm. “Just exactly what would ‘using you’ to get over my ex entail?”

And Sam leans into her. “Anything you like,” he murmurs. “And nothing you don’t.”

A glance back and up at him shows an inviting gleam in his eyes, and Sharon holds his gaze and tosses back her wine. “All right,” she says. “Your place or mine?”

It’s surprisingly easy to extricate themselves from the party.

Sharon grabs her jacket and purse and texts Maria as she walks to the elevator. And Sam is just leaving a message on someone’s phone as he walks down the corridor and the elevator doors open.

They walk into the empty car. The elevator doors close. And Sharon finds herself herded into the back corner, hands firm on her hips.

She gets a finger up against his lips before her can get that mouth on her. “I come with conditions.”

“Name them.”

“First things first. I’m not a groupie. There’ll be no photographs and no social media. You will always use a condom. And this is casual – one night only.”

There’s a moment when she thinks she maybe should have said all this before he stepped into the elevator. Then Sam grins, a lazy stretch of his lips against her upraised fingers. “I don’t kiss and tell, and I don’t boast. If the lady says no, then the answer is no. And I always carry what I need to get through the night.”

Sharon looks at him, narrow-eyed as she takes her hand away. “No boasting about how you might run out?”

“I did say I didn’t boast.” He leans down and his mouth nips at hers, hot and sweet. A soft curl of desire unfolds in her belly as he crowds her back into the corner of the elevator. “You got any more conditions then?”

“No.” Sharon presses in and nips right back, smiling in satisfaction as he growls in the back of his throat. “Show me what you got.”


End file.
